


Maybe I want you like this

by ImogenGotDrunk



Series: Fuck pride timestamps [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android friendly alcohol, Bottom RK900, Canon-typical language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gavin POV, Gavin gets wined and dined, Humour, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Angst, R gets dicked down, Smut, Top Gavin, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 00:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18680284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenGotDrunk/pseuds/ImogenGotDrunk
Summary: “You good, baby? Hey,” Gavin poked him in the shoulder, probably too hard but it got his attention. This position wasn’t right; Gavin between R’s legs, Gavin holding R down against the covers. Something about it all was totally off; something that a Gavin this hot under the collar couldn’t put his finger on without backing up for a second. “You short-circuit or somethin’? You never let me pin you.”R’s LED turned red.-R wants to switch things up. Gavin thinks a discussion beforehand might have been nice.





	Maybe I want you like this

Long story short, they’d been fooling around when it had happened. But to tell the _whole_ story, Gavin’s got to backtrack to an earlier point in the evening.

Six-forty PM sounds like a pretty good place to start. Around when R got back from overtime at the station.

Gavin had been, excuse his French, horny as fuck ever since R had first stepped into the apartment, and with pretty good goddamn reason. Over the last few weeks, the prick’s started wearing jeans. Like, ass-hugging, mouth-watering, _tight_ skinny jeans. It’s fucking sinful, and Gavin’s been eating it up like a man dying of starvation.

He’d rather have been eating something else, of course – preferably something beginning with A and ending in S – but R had swept through the front door with his _jeans_ and his bike helmet in hand, and had announced that they were going out.

“What?”

“Out, Detective. It’s a single syllable word meaning the opposite of _in_.”

“I know what out means, shitbird, I mean why the fuck are we goin’ there?”

“I’m taking you to dinner.”

Gavin had stared for a moment. Probably stupidly. “Come again? You’re fuckin’ what?”

R had obviously exercised a great deal of restraint to keep from rolling those pretty blue eyes of his, and he’d disappeared into the bedroom in three, long-legged strides. “ _Dinner_. A two-syllable word defining the meal taken in the evening, following breakfast and lunch–”

“Why are you takin’ me to dinner, smartass?” Gavin had to cut him off; the high-and-mighty tone was reaching full palpability, and he’d feared that it would soon adopt its final form and become an actual, physical presence. “Can’t we just cook? Or get takeout and watch Netflix like every other fuckin’ night, like normal people?”

“No,” and R had reappeared to launch Gavin’s smartest jacket across the living room and into the centre of his chest. “We cannot.”

“ _Baaabe_ ,” Gavin didn’t whine, he swears to fucking God he didn’t. “Why the fuck–”

“We have been dating for almost five months, Gavin Reed,” and if that still wasn’t the most unbelievable, mind-blowing thing that’s ever happened to Gavin in his entire life. “And it has occurred to me that we haven’t yet partaken in what can be called a _proper date_.”

“ _Partaken_ ,” Gavin had muttered, while not making a single move to abandon his very warm, very comfortable crease in the couch. “Why can’t you just say _gone on_ like a normal person, you psychopath. And it hasn’t just occurred to you out of the fuckin’ blue,” he’d added, because he fucking knew whose fault this _really_ was. “You’ve been talkin’ to Connor and Anderson.”

R had the decency to pause, and Gavin would have felt smug about catching him out, if he hadn’t then been on the receiving end of one of the android’s smirks. “Officer Chen, actually.”

That fucking traitor.

“She happened to mention that Mr. Archer and yourself had rarely gone to dinner in your time together. So I am taking you out tonight, because if I cannot wine and dine you, as they say, then our courtship has all been for nought.”

And, well, hadn’t that just decided it for him. Gavin would be going to dinner, because he had the world’s best fucking friend, and the world’s sweetest fucking boyfriend. Warm, comfy couch be damned.

“You just wanna _wine and dine me_ to get into my pants, don’t you, perv.”

R had grinned. Besides the jeans, it’s Gavin’s favourite look on him by far. “We both know it would take far less effort for me to achieve that.”

“You callin’ me easy?”

“On the contrary, my darling. I believe I’m calling myself lucky,” and Gavin would have bought a new five-hundred-fucking-dollar tux if R had asked him to after hearing those smooth-ass words come out of that smooth-ass fucking mouth. “Now hurry up. We have a reservation for seven-thirty.”

So they’d gone to dinner. And by _fuck_ , was it fancy.

Grey Ghost was a fifteen-minute walk from Gavin’s block, but after he’d fed Mia and apparently taken way too long to choose a shirt, R had insisted that they take the Ducati anyway. So Gavin spent the drive encouraging R to speed through barely-changed green lights, and with his crotch pressed up against the android’s perfect ass.

And okay, so the joint wasn’t _too_ fancy. But Gavin had still felt a momentary spike of queasy internal conflict as they pulled up outside. The lights looked dim and romantic, and the bar was all polished and swanky, and the restaurant was packed full. And there were candles on the tables. Fucking _candles_.

They probably had lobster on the menu.

Gavin should’ve worn a nicer shirt.

To make things even fancier, the guy at the fucking door greeted R _by name_. The android pretended not to have clocked Gavin’s bemused expression until they were being seated at their table.

“North and I have come here before, a number of times.”

That had explained it. In truth, Gavin used to be worried about North. R mentioned the name often enough, and Gavin had just assumed she was a guy because patriarchy or some shit. But when he’d finally thought to just fucking ask, and R had compared it to how shit was between Gavin and Tina, he had instantly relaxed. Tina’s amazing but… no. Gross. And as far as he knew, North already had someone. Or multiple someones, from the vague information he’d managed to rib from R.

But back to dinner.

So they’d sat down, and Gavin had ordered a whiskey and coke, and his ankle was resting against R’s under the table, and he was browsing the menu uninterestedly when it had all of a sudden occurred to him. “Babe, you can’t even _eat_ , what the fuck are we doin’ here?”

R, with his windswept hair and leather jacket draped over one half of the chair, had looked across at him with this haughty fucking face that, for some reason, never failed in making Gavin’s pants feel a little tighter. “It’s a _date_ , Gavin. Eating is hardly an important factor. The novelty is in the company, not the food.”

“How ‘bout the drink, then? That’s way more novel than your company, if you ask me.”

He was fucking lucky that R got his shitty humour; anyone else on a date would’ve probably thrown a drink in his face. But R, because he’s perfect, had just given Gavin’s shin a light kick and decided he was taking too long to choose his order.

“If you get anythin’ vegan,” Gavin had warned, “I swear to fuck I’m leaving you.”

R ordered a steak. Because he’s perfect.

And when it arrived, it had taken Gavin several carnivorous bites before he’d realised that the waiter had also placed a drink down in front of R. A vibrant, _blue_ drink that looked suspiciously like blue blood. No, fucking scratch that. It looked _exactly_ like blue blood.

“Hey, plastic Dracula, are you seriously drinkin’ blood right now?”

“Blue blood is a human term,” R had retorted over the rim of his glass. “Despite what you cretins may believe, it is not actually blood.”

“Yeah, but still. What the fuck is that, then? Antifreeze?”

“ _Impure_ thirium. Certain components have either been watered down or removed completely.”

“Impure? That doesn’t sound good, maniac, what about–”

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you,” R put up one hand, interrupting what Gavin’s certain would have been an amazing argument on his part. “It elicits an effect similar to that in humans upon consumption of alcohol. It slows our thought processes and movements to varying degrees. This is one of the few establishments in the city to begin distributing android-compatible beverages, so I thought I’d… give it a shot.”

Gavin would, much later that night, realise how fucking suspicious this was. Because it was so, _so_ far out of character. R did not just _give things a fucking shot_. He was a stickler for control; he was all planning and preparation, and he was rarely this fucking spontaneous. Gavin would also, of course, gain a lot more clarity as to _why_ R had ordered the android equivalent of vodka or tequila or whatever the fuck it was meant to be, but he’ll get to all that in due fucking time.

For that moment, excitement and curiosity had won out over suspicion. “So let me get this straight. This is like alcohol to you guys. Like, actual fucking alcohol? Can you get drunk on it?”

“That is the general idea, yes.”

Drunk R? _Drunk_ _R?_ Holy shit, _yes_. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

R had shrugged; a one-shouldered motion that had no right to look as sexy as it did, and he’d tipped his glass toward the centre of the table. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we.”

Gavin _had_ to toast to that. And by that time, any discomfort from before had taken the rest of the night off. The food was awesome, and the company was even fucking better. And as the evening wore on, R’s little experiment was looking more and more like a success.

It was probably a dick move, but Gavin found himself neglecting his own drink just to keep a clearer head and witness for himself the beautiful effects that impure thirium could have on an android.

And no, R didn’t get wasted, because of course he fucking didn’t – this, again, was something that Gavin would later realise was completely intentional, but due fucking time. Like in every other part of his life, R was meticulous without even trying to be; he drank slowly and his attention was entirely on Gavin, because this was, after all, a date. The company was the novelty and all that shit.

But when half the drink was gone, Gavin started to notice a few things.

First, R was leaning in his chair. Nothing unusual about that, sure, but the point was that R never _slouched_. It was always like he had a metal rod along his spine, keeping him somehow upright even when he was sitting. But the guy suddenly had his elbows on the table – bad etiquette, for one, and something R would _never_ do otherwise – and he was resting his chin in one hand, which was unfairly fucking adorable because it meant that he was smiling through his fingers whenever Gavin made him laugh.

Second, he started _cursing_. Again, okay, nothing too weird about it, the guy curses sometimes. It would be fucking hard not to, working in such close quarters with Anderson five days a week. But R had started, out of fucking nowhere, cursing in every other sentence. It was like that careful filter had abruptly decided to take five and fuck off for a while.

And third, after a steak, and only a few whiskey and cokes, and two weird android blood drinks, R had forgotten to hold the door open for him as they left and it had swung back and bruised Gavin’s knee something fierce. He didn’t fucking care, though. Not when R had laughed like _that_ while he loudly announced _fuck the bike, let’s fucking walk_ to the whole of Detroit, and he was jostling Gavin’s shoulder with his own and grabbing for his hand all the way back to the apartment.

Yeah, now. Back to the apartment. _This_ is where Gavin’s getting close to that evening’s real money shot, so hang the fuck in there.

Gavin had opened the door, tripped R’s leg on the way in and snickered when he’d stumbled across the threshold. That normally effortless composure was long-gone, and Gavin watched through the warm, tipsy buzzing in his stomach as R had bent to sweep Mia up and into the air above his head, chuckling at the futile swipes her paws aimed toward his face.

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” had all of a sudden left Gavin’s mouth, because he hadn’t had the restraint to _not_ fucking say it, and R had smiled at him so wide that little creases appeared in the corners of his eyes.

It had all been fucking surreal for a moment, and the crazy reality of Gavin’s situation only heightened by the fact that R had his pissed off cat in his arms and that Gavin had just had the best date in the history of best dates; probably the _only_ proper date he’d ever actually had and would ever actually give a shit about.

Because of R. Because he’s fucking perfect.

“I love you.”

And hell, hadn’t _that_ come as a surprise. Gavin isn’t vocal with that kind of shit; it was only the second fucking time he’d ever _said it_ – and no, he is _not_ including that shitstorm with Danny, that doesn’t fucking count and it never fucking will – and the anxiety had still hit him instantly; cruel and mocking and threatening to ruin what had been, up until then, one of the most amazing fucking nights of his fucking life.

But R had been there; letting Mia pounce onto the couch, and crossing the room, and taking Gavin’s face into his hands and kissing any fucking uncertainty away until all Gavin could hear was, _‘I love you, as well. Rather a lot, actually.’_

Now, the first thing that should have let Gavin onto something, besides the fact that R was apparently now a spontaneous alcoholic, was the fact that he’d let Gavin drag him into the bedroom. Gavin _never_ dragged R. Ever. R did the dragging and he had done for almost five months, and Gavin was wholly fucking okay with that because seriously, it was hot as shit.

But he’d _dragged_ him. R had _let_ him drag him. And if Gavin hadn’t been getting embarrassingly hard in his pants, he would’ve clicked that it was pretty fucking surreal to feel R _letting_ him pull him; _letting_ him shove the dumb, sexy leather jacket from his dumb, sexy shoulders; _letting_ him twist so he could push R down onto the bed and crawl between his legs.

If Gavin’s brain was tuned into anything other than _R_ and _mouth_ and _shirt_ and _skin_ , then he would have thought _what the fuck_ , and he probably would have thought it with an ecstatic rush of surprise. Like that feeling of riding a rollercoaster and expecting it to rise, only for it to drop suddenly and do strange, not-entirely-unpleasant things to your stomach.

It was only when R’s legs _curled_ around his hips, using them as leverage to squeeze Gavin closer until the tightness in his pants started to make Gavin grit his teeth together, _it felt so fucking good, Jesus Christ_ , that Gavin also realised that R was letting him fist a hand into his hair and bare his neck so that Gavin could lave his tongue along the column of his throat. And that was when he had jolted to reality a little more.

This was fucking _submissive_. This was not like R, at all.

“You good, baby? Hey,” Gavin poked him in the shoulder, probably too hard but it got his attention. This position wasn’t right; Gavin between _R’s_ legs, Gavin holding _R_ down against the covers. Something about it all was totally off; something that a Gavin this hot under the collar couldn’t put his finger on without backing up for a second. “You short-circuit or somethin’? You never let me pin you.”

R’s LED turned red.

_Motherfucking fuck, not good, not fucking good-_

But then he’d said, “Maybe I want you like this,” and oh. _Oh_. “Maybe a change in dynamic would be… welcome.”

Motherfucking _fuck_.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had like half a dozen requests about bottom!R sitting in my inbox for months, and this has been a draft for so long that I literally can't look at it anymore without wanting to spontaneously implode.
> 
> So fuck it, here it is.


End file.
